


fleeting reprieve

by darthpumpkinspice



Series: do not repent for these deeds [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s07e06 Treachery Faith and the Great River, M/M, Porn with Feelings, in which Damar gets a small moment of hope before its snatched away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: I knew there was something wrong with him from the moment we met. He lacked your appetite for cruelty.
Relationships: Damar/Dukat (mentioned), Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek), Damar/Weyoun 6 (Star Trek)
Series: do not repent for these deeds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084316
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	fleeting reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> sooo s7 episode 6 still TOTALLY devastates me, and Damar's line to Weyoun 7 regarding 6 struck me as... very much not a compliment to 7. So with that in mind, here we go! If you like, drop a kudo or a comment! I'd love to hear ya'll thoughts

Weyoun 6 greets Damar in the same way Weyoun 5 did: without a word.

A painfully awkward moment of suspicious silence passes between them, and Damar’s fingers twitch, longing for the comforting weight of a kanar bottle.

Eyes as violet as electromagnetic pulses blink wide and fearful at him, and first of many _weak_ thoughts to come swims up to the surface of Damar’s mind, suggesting that _this_ Vorta does not seem like the same creature who stood side-by-side with Dukat as they worked to engineer the destruction of the Alpha Quadrant. For a surreal moment, a wisp of something akin to guilt unfurls within Damar, and he swallows, cognizant of a sudden urge to avert his gaze. Then the Vorta’s eyes narrow in a look of disturbingly familiar distrust, and the soft coil of remorse around Damar’s heart turns to ash as he remembers that this is still the same Weyoun he has hated for over a year, just with a new number tacked on to the end of his name.

Weyoun 6 paces for a moment, his eyes flickering around the room as if trying to recommit it to memory. His face, as simultaneously expressive and inscrutable as ever, goes through a quick contraction of some emotion Damar does not bother to guess at. Then the new Weyoun gathers himself, and primly pauses his motions, clasping his hands behind his back and clearing his throat. He peers at Damar, eyes still narrowed. “Did you expect to see me again?”

Damar suspects this is a rhetorical question, or perhaps a trap – part of some insipid game Weyoun is attempting to play with him. Dukat would relish this, Damar thinks resentfully. His old commander would enjoy nothing more than a verbal sparring match mired in subtle accusations and veiled threats. Dukat had always possessed a Romulan knack for skillful wordplay and casual deception. Damar, by contrast, is clumsy in this arena. It is not his battlefield of choice. He makes a noncommittal grunt in lieu of a response, shouldering past Weyoun to uncork a half-empty bottle of kanar. He pours himself a generous amount, and out of habit offers a glass to Weyoun that he knows will be rebuffed, as always.

To his surprise, Weyoun takes a half-step forward, and reaches out a hand to accept the glass. He holds it strangely, nestling it between two hands, and Damar finds himself faintly dumbstruck by the sight of it. Weyoun presses his glass forward imploringly, and Damar shakes himself out of his reverie, pouring until the kanar is practically sloshing against the brim.

“What’s the point?” he asks, as Weyoun examines the liquid. As far as he’s been made aware, not only do the Vorta not possess much in the way of functional taste buds, they’re also incapable of getting drunk – a combination of traits Damar doesn’t envy.

“I’m not allowed to be curious?” Weyoun responds lightly, in a tone of voice Damar would categorize as ‘joking’ in anyone else. And then, with that eerie, alien grace of his, Weyoun raises the glass to his lips and takes a long sip. Somewhat shell-shocked, Damar mirrors the action, taking a bracing gulp of his own. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit to resist downing the entire glass, and he has to force himself to lower it back to the table.

The pause that stretches between the two of them now has become, impossibly, even more uncomfortable than before. The warm buzz of kanar that sinks into his belly cannot entirely ward off the crawl of pins-and-needles down his spine. Weyoun lowers his gaze to contemplate the glass he’s still nursing, and Damar finds himself gripped by the sudden impulse to smack it out of his hands. He lets the fantasy linger in his mind for a moment longer than necessary before discarding it, blowing out a breath between clenched teeth.

The exhalation is loud enough that Weyoun looks up, startled, before settling his features into a scowl. He sets his glass next to Damar’s, freeing himself to cross his arms over his chest. It’s a display Damar has seen many times before – the previous Weyoun used to do it often, whenever he wanted to play at being intimidating. Damar had always found it laughable. But now, there is something disturbingly endearing about the gesture that he promptly ascribes to the effects of kanar on an empty stomach.

“Well?” he barks out, as much to shake a response from Weyoun as to remind himself, _firmly,_ of his disdain of the Vorta.

Weyoun glares at him. “I was relieved to learn you survived the transporter accident,” he says, voice dropping to become dangerously soft.

They’re back on that then, are they? Damar had held some – evidently misguided – hope the kanar interaction had sufficiently distracted him. “I’d been called away,” he says in the blandest voice he can muster.

“Interesting,” Weyoun replies flatly. “What marvelous serendipity.”

Despite his best attempts to school his features into stoic neutrality, Damar finds himself fighting a losing battle against a particularly self-satisfied smirk. The corners of his lips curl upwards, and Weyoun’s eyes flash to them before he has time to smooth it away.

He braces himself for Weyoun’s reaction, anticipating bluster and anger, or perhaps a simpering declaration of the Vorta’s _disappointment_ with the Cardassian species. Instead, Weyoun does something infinitely more undesirable. His eyebrows raise at the same instant his bottom lip quivers – the barest trembling, but enough to be noticeable. Damar stares at him in abject horror, feeling a reckless, unwelcome urge to _comfort_ him. He grabs the nearest glass instead, finishing off the rest of the contents and letting the steadying heat of the alcohol suffuse him. He realizes his mistake as the Vorta tilts his head and then squints, eyes going between Damar’s hands and the table. “That one was _mine,_ Damar.”

There’s still a good deal of residual irritation that stirs upon hearing his name spoken in the Vorta’s deliberately silken voice. Muscle memory has him grimacing, and he puts the glass back down as fast as he can, disturbed by the not-unlikely possibility his lips and Weyoun’s might’ve just shared the same space. 

“The investigation has concluded,” Damar declares, in a tone of voice he borrows from his tenure as Dukat’s first officer. The newest Weyoun flinches back in another uncomfortable display of vulnerability, and Damar again feels the nagging presence of guilt sliding around inside of him. That unwanted urge to comfort the Vorta has returned tenfold, but Damar’s bedside manner is rusty, and he’s never been accused of being an especially soothing man. In what might be his first intelligent decision of the day, he presses his lips tightly together and decides against saying anything further – one way or another.

Weyoun regards him with one of his obnoxiously incisive stares, and then glides forward, moving soundlessly across the black-tiled floor until he comes to a stop before the display at the far-corner of the room. Weyoun brushes quick fingers against it, and it blinks to life, neon green coordinates and troop movements flashing across the surface of the screen. He turns to Damar, his face grave. “We have many things to discuss,” he says, sounding so _sincere_ Damar stiffens with unease – certain the Vorta’s next words will be a prophecy of apocalyptic doom. Instead, Weyoun merely goes on to babble out some dull statistics about white production and white manufacturing delays in a nearby sector. It’s all information Damar’s already been briefed on – none of it especially urgent.

He shrugs. “I’ve ordered supplies be covertly reassigned to that system. We shouldn’t need to concern ourselves with further delays.”

At this point in the conversation, Weyoun should be smugly correcting him on some minor detail he’d overlooked or hadn’t thought to mention. Instead, the Vorta simply nods sagely. “Excellent,” he tells him. And then, even more bizarrely, he smiles.

If Damar was the sort of man prone to vivid dreams, he’d be pinching himself right about now. As it is, there’s a paranoid part of him wondering if the Vorta slipped a hallucinogenic compound into his kanar in an act of petty revenge for the transporter… accident, because the only times he can recall Weyoun giving him that _sincere_ of a smile have all been either directly before or immediately after a decisive military victory. “So,” he says. “You’re pleased?”

“Oh yes,” Weyoun says. “Well done, Legate. I’m glad the situation has been addressed.”

Heat flushes along the ridges of Damar’s neck at the sound of his title. Many of his memories involving the fifth iteration of Weyoun are muddled thanks to the assistance of copious amounts of kanar, but he thinks this may be the first time his title has been uttered in a way that’s not intended to be needlingly sarcastic. He could get _used_ to this, he decides. “I prefer this attitude of yours,” Damar tells him, drifting dangerously close to gratitude. Then, because he can’t resist a prime opportunity to insult the Vorta, he adds, “Dying appears to have softened you out.”

Weyoun’s violet eyes shine and his mouth parts in an expression caught between curiosity and fear. “Is that so?” he asks. “The next clone in a line is supposed to be an exact replica of their predecessor, but the process has been known to be… imperfect.”

“Oh yes,” Damar says easily. “You’re different from the other one. I’d bet my finest platoon on it.”

Weyoun’s mouth droops down. “Then I’m likely defective.”

Damar barks out a quick laugh, and clasps his hand over Weyoun’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “It’s an improvement.”

Still looking vaguely despondent, Weyoun attempts a tentative smile that only succeeds in coming off as pained. Frankly, Damar thinks it might be the most _relatable_ he’s ever looked, and that realization has the unintended effect of making his mouth go sand-dry. At the same moment, he becomes aware that his hand is still resting on Weyoun’s shoulder, and the Vorta follows his gaze, giving Damar’s hand an unreadable look. The green hues of the readout behind Weyoun seem to bathe him in color, contrasting almost appealingly with his pale skin and bright eyes. For an instant, he looks distractingly luminous. Damar yanks his hand back to the safety of his side where it belongs, and his palm tingles at the sudden loss of contact.

“I look forward to our renewed working relationship,” Weyoun tells him. He’s adopted a watchfully placid expression, one Damar has often seen him wear for the benefit of visiting diplomats – although Weyoun 5 never bothered to ingratiate himself to Damar, so seeing that look now focused on him is a disconcertingly novel sensation.

“As do I,” Damar responds, a touch belatedly, and in a voice that sounds almost strangled. His tongue scrapes heavily over the roof of his mouth as he swallows, and he grates out his next words. “Perhaps you could come by my quarters later, to discuss it in more… depth.”

Weyoun gazes at him for another careful second, and then some revelation dawns upon him. Damar grits his teeth as Weyoun laugh loudly, the sound as sudden and sharp as the detonation of a percussive missile. Embarrassment rains over him like ash as Weyoun’s laugh tapers off into a hearty chuckle, and the Vorta claps his hands together. “You mean _sex_ ,” he says, his eyes glittering with amusement.

The pure, unabashed delight on Weyoun’s face is entirely too reminiscent of his predecessor, and Damar stiffens defensively, his instincts demanding he snap out a denial and then, for good measure, accuse the Vorta of being a pervert. But there’s none of the usual edge of mockery to _this_ Weyoun, and so Damar squares his shoulders and scowls as he admits, “Yes.” He can feel the blush that creeps down his throat to darken his neck ridges, and he clenches his jaw, adding, “If you would be interested.” The amendment is entirely redundant – Damar can’t recall Weyoun ever indulging him on any request out of _politeness_ before. He has long since learned that the Vorta’s genetically programmed penchant for servile obedience is reserved exclusively for the Founders – Damar has no delusions that he, nor any other Cardassian, will ever be the recipient of it. 

“I _would_ be,” Weyoun breathes. He chuckles lightly to himself again. “Weyoun 5 and I share a… interest… in Cardassian physiology. I would enjoy exploring this in greater depth.”

“I won’t be your _curiosity,_ ” Damar snaps. “I’m not your _pet_ , Vorta.”

Weyoun shifts back, looking appropriately chagrined. His face twists into a well-practiced simulacrum of remorse, and he lets the emotion linger for a beat before it dissolves. Then he offers a more genuine smile, and steps closer until Damar can feel the body heat radiating from him. He smells alarmingly _pleasant,_ Damar thinks. He inhales despite himself, catches a faint sweetness that reminds him of Cardassian desert blossoms. He does not remember the former Weyoun having any sort of scent to him, and he wonders if the Founders engineered this new Weyoun to be more unconsciously appealing to his people – tampering with his DNA to give him a subtle sensory attractiveness. Or perhaps Weyoun 6 simply likes to keep flowers around.

Weyoun tilts his head back to gaze up at him, and then, almost as an afterthought, places his hands against the armored weave of Damar’s chest plate. “I only meant to imply that I would be more than amenable,” he murmurs.

Although this doesn’t quite hit the bottom rung of come-ons Damar has encountered over the years (he doesn’t think many could sink below Dukat’s coldly dismissive “bedroom, ten minutes”), it’s certainly among the worst he’s experienced since ascending to Gul and then Legate. Still… he does admit there is something strangely erotic about hearing Weyoun’s attempts to proposition him in those honeyed tones of his, coupled with his off-color eyes heavy-lidded to the point of being downright sensual. Damar shivers, acutely aware of Weyoun’s nearness, of the hands still pressed to his chest. He wonders if this burgeoning arousal is merely a desire to see their positions finally reversed – to dominate the Vorta in retaliation for all his predecessor’s slights against him. His cock swells at that thought, and he acknowledges that’s certainly _part_ of it – but whatever the full reason, Damar _does_ want him. He’s just – not exactly sure what to _do_ with him. The Vorta species is entirely alien to him, and until a few moments ago he wasn’t even confident they _could_ engage in sexual activity, and he’s still open to the possibility that this could all be some devious trick to humiliate him.

Fortunately, Weyoun seems unbothered by Damar’s lack of encouragement. His fingers splay out across Damar’s chest and then move upwards, stroking lightly along his neck ridges with the deft, clinical grace of a surgeon in the operating room. Weyoun traces against the outline of raised bones, fingers moving as cleanly and carefully as scalpels. Damar grunts but makes no attempt to stop him as one of those fingers slips under the collar of his undershirt to graze further down, and his eyes slit briefly closed.

Weyoun looks irritatingly smug at his reaction. “I’d heard rumors these areas are erogenous zones for your species,” he says. “Would you be able to confirm this?”

Being Weyoun’s field test for Cardassian biology is suddenly less of an unpleasant prospect now that the research has moved from the theoretical into the _hands-on_ territory, but his pride still rankles at the professionally _clinical_ tone to the question. “You are welcome to find out,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid gasping as Weyoun’s movements grow bolder and firmer.

“I intend to,” Weyoun promises, his voice dropping lowly into something Damar is tempted to describe as a _purr_. His hands flatten and rise up along Damar’s ridges, coming to rest on the sides of his face. The Vorta’s palms are as hot as a solar flare, and Damar feels branded by the touch. “Is it customary in your species to kiss?” he asks. “I have always wanted to try it.”

“We do,” Damar tells him in a rough voice. “Allow me to demonstrate.” He grips Weyoun’s wrists, peeling them off his jaw and lowering them to his waist, gratified by the Vorta’s ready compliance. He moves his own hands – one to rest against the back of Weyoun’s neck, the other cupping his chin (and he is _overthinking_ this already, he admonishes himself) – and he tilts the Vorta’s head up as he lowers his own, pressing their mouths together. His eyes drift closed of their own accord as their lips connect –Weyoun’s are pleasingly _soft_ , and the sweetness of his scent floods Damar’s senses. It is the least natural kiss he has ever shared with someone – Weyoun does not so much as twitch at first, and Damar is forced to be aggravatingly gentle with him as he nips and sucks against the Vorta’s bottom lip, slowly coaxing it into motion. Once Weyoun has a grasp of the basic mechanics of the act, and their movements synchronize enough to venture into a steady rhythm, Damar attempts to slip his tongue into the Vorta’s mouth. There is some minor resistance to the intrusion, but Damar pushes past it and takes a vindictive pleasure in Weyoun’s quick surrender. He is surprised by how reluctant he is to pull away, and distantly, he feels the wild pounding of his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Did you find that… satisfactory?” Damar asks lowly.

Weyoun moves his hands from their position on Damar’s hip to prod inquisitively at his own mouth. One finger traces over the curve of his upper lip, and Damar finds himself tracking the movement, feeling a growing impulse to push Weyoun’s hands away so he can have unrestricted access to that mouth again. “It met expectations,” Weyoun says, lightly and playfully enough to seem downright teasing. His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Do it again.”

“Demanding as ever,” Damar mutters, even as he pulls Weyoun towards him again for a second kiss. He grudgingly admits the man is a quick study – this kiss is smooth and deep, and the Vorta presses his own tongue past Damar’s lips this time, exploring his mouth with a single-minded thoroughness. Damar’s throat grows hot and tight as the kiss progresses, and a spike of lust drops through his stomach to unfurl in his groin. He shifts himself forward, trying to rub his hardening cock against Weyoun’s thigh as obviously as he can without seeming overly desperate. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does when Weyoun withdraws from the kiss to stare down at the growing bulge between Damar’s legs. The Vorta is entirely too perceptive for his own good, and if Damar is being honest, he wasn’t exactly being _covert_ himself. Weyoun reaches down to grasp what he can access of Damar’s cock through his pants, squeezing and rubbing until Damar is almost trembling with the effort of staying silent and controlled. His hips, treacherously, buck up into Weyoun’s hands, and he finally relents, moaning out a broken plea. 

“Perhaps we should move this to your quarters after all,” Weyoun suggests, still idly stroking over Damar’s cock and looking, obnoxiously, the very picture of composure.

Damar nods, not trusting his words. Under the hazy wash of pleasure, he finds himself bitter at this turnabout – this was his chance, for _once_ , to take charge of his dynamic with Weyoun, but instead it’s the Vorta, inexperienced and possibly virginal, who has assumed control. He pushes Weyoun off him and sucks in a deep, steadying breath, willing his erection to subside. Having to walk alongside Weyoun to his quarters, with his cock so flagrantly everted, would be the sort of humiliation nightmares are made of. He still remembers those walks to-and-from Dukat’s quarters – the shame of it is etched into his bones, along with the memory of his crew’s eyes burning into him – and he has no desire to repeat any part of those experiences. This version of Weyoun reveals himself to be kinder than Dukat, less interested in lording his power over him in such a blatant manner, and he gives Damar the necessary time to collect himself. It is a small mercy, but an appreciated one.

* * *

They arrive at his quarters not long after. Damar spies Weyoun casting a judgmental eye around at the empty bottles scattered throughout, but wisely, the Vorta decides to hold his tongue. His gaze lingers for another moment before he turns on his heel to face Damar fully, raising an expectant eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to undress?”

Typically, Damar would prefer to go for a slower seduction, an evening spent sharing drinks and sensual touches, but the Vorta seems determined to rush to the final act and Damar can’t quite find it within himself to protest. “You’re needy,” he tells him.

Weyoun’s lips curl into a smirk. “Is that so?” he asks delicately. “Perhaps you’re projecting.”

Damar scowls. “Bedroom first,” he orders, desperate to at least make _some_ decision of his own here.

Weyoun obeys without complaint, following Damar as he marches them towards his bed. He’s already fumbling with the clasps to release his armor, and Weyoun watches him unhelpfully as he pulls off his undershirt and then strips off his pants. By the time he’s nude, his body is burning with a not-too distantly remembered shame: he feels abruptly like a young soldier again, standing naked before his Gul and awaiting their approval, their regard. It doesn’t help that Weyoun is still fully clothed, judging him silently with unreadable eyes. Weyoun’s gaze drifts lazily over Damar’s body, roaming down his neck, across his chest, over his arms. Finally, his gaze moves downwards past the torso, and Weyoun stares wide-eyed at the fully everted cock jutting out between Damar’s legs. “Fascinating,” he breathes, a word that – combined with a particularly dramatic head tilt – makes Damar feel like a laboratory specimen on display.

“Don’t say _fascinating_ ,” he grumbles, settling himself on the bed. “That’s not the kind of thing someone wants to hear from a -” he chokes on the last part of the sentence before he can say it out loud, and the word _lover_ dies unvoiced in the back of his throat.

Fortunately – and frustratingly – Weyoun appears to have been only half-listening. “No offense intended,” he says brightly, still staring down with unnerving, unblinking intensity. “Besides, I believe _that_ would be considered fairly well-endowed for your species, yes?” He makes a vague gesture towards Damar’s cock, which has begun to wilt slightly during Weyoun’s dissection-like examination of it.

Damar glares down at it as if it has personally disappointed him, and doesn’t bother to soften that glare as he looks back up towards Weyoun. The Vorta crawls onto the bed beside him, still fully clothed, and offers an innocent smile Damar doesn’t remotely trust. Nevertheless, he tries to follow the usual script of a romantic encounter – as out-of-order as this might be – and reaches out to stroke down the side of Weyoun’s face, moving across the plane of his cheek. Weyoun’s eyes don’t drift closed like a typical lover’s would, but Damar soldiers on, his thumb sweeping across the ridges along Weyoun’s jaw and then up to brush the corner of his mouth. Weyoun’s lips finally part at this, but his body betrays no other sign of arousal. An unpleasant thought occurs to Damar, and he lowers his hand. “Do you even enjoy this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Weyoun asks, as if he hasn’t been oscillating between bemusement and professionally pleasant neutrality during this entire encounter.

Damar hesitates. “You’ve mentioned you don’t have much appreciation for aesthetics. And you do lack certain senses.”

Weyoun smiles benevolently. “My sense of _touch_ is fully intact, Damar.”

“And aesthetics?” Damar insists. His ego is growing more than a bit bruised by all of this back and forth, and he’s feeling a rather immature need to see it soothed. He feels, troublingly, like a besotted schoolgirl, desperate to be called _pretty_. It’s a self-pitying impulse he finds both repugnant and counterproductive – he doubts he’ll find much solace in Weyoun’s answer, and if tonight’s track record is any indicator, he’ll likely wind up even more offended than before. He mentally prepares himself for that eventuality as Weyoun regards him with a careful look.

The Vorta shrugs. “I’m afraid I don’t experience physical attraction in the traditional sense.” He pauses, and runs his gaze up and down Damar’s form. “But rest assured, you are more pleasant than most to my eyes.” Weyoun reaches out a pale hand, trailing clever fingers down the ridges of Damar's neck. Damar has to stifle a moan, resenting how much more _undone_ he already is than the Vorta. Compared to Weyoun he’s practically acting like a Bajoran whore – mewling so desperately at the barest touches. Exacerbating this shame, Weyoun beams at the reaction he’s elicited. “You are also quite symmetrical,” he compliments. It’s a terrible imitation of seduction, but at this point, Damar would take anything remotely resembling flattery.

Compliments received demand compliments repaid. It is customary, it is the order of things, and Damar is nothing if not driven to embrace _proper order_. His sense of duty would allow for nothing else. “You are a lovely creature,” Damar murmurs into the Vorta’s ear, kissing down the ridge of it until the place where it joins to his jaw.

Weyoun preens at that. “You think so?” he coos.

“Very much.” And because Weyoun has always had a special talent for undermining Damar’s emotional maturity, he adds, “And you see, Weyoun, _that_ is how you describe the appearance of a… lover.” The last word comes out reluctantly, but he is able to vocalize it this time at least.

“I thought you’d appreciate knowing you met the mathematical standards for humanoid attractiveness,” Weyoun says innocently. His neck arches up as Damar drags his lips down the slim column of his throat.

“No you didn’t,” Damar tells him, biting against the side of his neck in quick reprimand as he pulls back up to watch Weyoun. To his dismay, the Vorta’s eyes only betray the faintest glimmer of mirth, and Damar reaches to yank away the man’s absurdly layered collection of garments with more force than is strictly necessary. He has grown tired of being the only one so _exposed_. Weyoun assists him with some of the more complicated knots and clasps, but otherwise seems content to observe Damar struggle to undress him.

He finds, to his slight surprise, that there is a cock between his legs – one that is unsurprisingly flaccid, but _there_ nonetheless. “What should I do with it?” he asks, a little stupidly.

“Whatever you want,” Weyoun says. “It’ll respond to sensation in the same general way most species’ do.”

Testing that, Damar reaches down, slowly tugging on the organ until it starts to harden. Weyoun displays his first true reaction as Damar continues to work it to full stiffness, crying out and turning his face to the side. The sight of the Vorta’s flawless control starting to disintegrate is dizzying, and Damar presses a bruising kiss to his lips, carding his free hand through the other man’s dark hair and taking a petty satisfaction in mussing it. When he’s done with him, Weyoun no longer looks so perfectly pristine, and Damar decides _disheveled_ is a good look for the Vorta. He could get used to this, he realizes – get used to _seeing_ Weyoun like this, pale and naked and faintly ruffled, spread out almost submissively awaiting Damar’s touch. And in this instant, those languid eyes of his are shimmering starshine bright with an emotion perilously close to _awe_. Whatever battering his ego might’ve taken to reach this point, Damar decides it has all been worth it, for nothing else than this fleeting moment where Weyoun 6 regards him as if he is half-divine.

He slides himself between Weyoun’s legs, and begins to lick and suck at the Vorta’s cock. He is good at this, he knows it – Gul Dukat only allowed for sloppiness in his Bajoran concubines, his subordinates were held to a _higher_ standard, a _Cardassian_ standard – and it is not long before Weyoun begins to shudder and moan so prettily. He pulls his mouth from Weyoun’s cock with a wet pop, and can’t resist smirking as Weyoun keens at the loss of contact, his hips thrusting up into empty air. “Does this feel good?”

“Yes,” Weyoun gasps, squirming wantonly. “You are _very_ talented, Damar, _truly_ a virtuoso with your lips.” He attempts a glare, but his eyes are so clouded with need that the expression ends up just looking _hungry_. “Is that enough for you to continue, or would you prefer that I beg?”

The notion is not lacking in appeal. Damar runs his hand up Weyoun’s cock, his thumb catching deliberately on the head. Weyoun hisses out, his fingers fisting into the sheets, and Damar delights in this – in finally shattering the Vorta’s smug composure. He plans to fully enjoy the fruits of his efforts while they last. “Yes,” he purrs. “Beg me. Say my name and _beg_.”

“Please, Damar,” Weyoun grates out, uttering his name in the tone of voice one might ordinarily use to say _bastard_. “ _Damar_. Suck my cock again. I’m begging you.”

Damar mentally commits Weyoun’s pleas to memory, and then lazily returns his mouth to the Vorta’s cock, resuming his ministrations.

It is not long before Weyoun’s hands have migrated from the sheets to tug at his hair, and the Vorta’s hips begin to rock up more demandingly into Damar’s mouth. His length is beginning to hit against the back of Damar’s throat, and he closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, and keeps his cheeks hollowed and his movements steady. If Vorta physiology is remotely similar to other humanoid species, it will not be much longer now. His assumption proves correct – Weyoun grips roughly into his hair and with a low, strangled cry his hips jerk up several times in rapid succession and then still. Damar’s throat convulses as he attempts to swallow him down, before realizing, belatedly, there is nothing _to_ swallow.

“We’re infertile,” Weyoun explains in a rough voice, correctly interpreting Damar’s confusion. “Our genitals are primarily utilized to aid in stress relief.” He glances down at Damar’s cock – still straining between his legs – and offers a slight smile. “Allow me to assist you.”

Damar rolls onto his back, expecting, perhaps, that Weyoun will attempt to replicate what Damar just demonstrated with his own mouth and tongue. Instead, Weyoun straddles him, and before Damar can think to suggest the use of lubricant, the Vorta is already lowering himself onto Damar’s cock. Bit by bit Weyoun pulls Damar inside himself, and Damar groans out at the tight heat of his body – as hot as a molten sun, as welcome and sweet as the first kiss of daylight after months in the void of space. Weyoun sinks down fully and then begins to move, his hips rolling with rhythmic precision.

“You’ve done this before,” Damar manages to gasp out. He’s not sure if he intends the remark to be an accusation or praise – at this point, the friction of Weyoun’s body has him practically delirious.

“No,” Weyoun says, his hips grinding down. “But the process seemed simple enough.” His eyes are slitted and he’s begun to breathe more heavily as he sets an urgent pace. The cock dangling between his legs has begun to grow half-half again, and Damar grips it in his hand, pleased to see Weyoun’s movements briefly falter as he squeezes it.

Weyoun’s eyes map the planes of his body, and his fingers trace over Damar’s muscles with fleeting, reverential touches, as if his skin were inscribed with holy text. Those fingers soon reach Damar’s face, brushing lightly over his lips, and for a second Damar feels as if he’s ascended to a higher plane of existence. His world dissolves in the white-hot radiance of Weyoun’s body, and he spills himself deep inside of the Vorta.

He’s lying with him afterwards, nuzzling against him and basking in Weyoun’s heat. “Is this the sort of new working relationship I can expect to enjoy going forward?” he asks sleepily.

Weyoun chuckles softly, and stretches out a hand to caress against the side of Damar’s neck. “Trust me,” he murmurs. “I do not intend to take our… alliance for granted.”

Damar kisses him, and a warmth blossoms in his chest – the sort of sensation he can usually only find at the bottom of a kanar bottle. “Nor do I.” 

* * *

“I knew there was something wrong with him from the moment we met,” Damar will say later, downing kanar to numb the sticky pain that clings to his chest and the inside of his throat, the one he refuses to identify as grief. He will do his duty as he has always has, and he will accept the fate of Weyoun 6. He can only hope to be done with this ignoble affair as soon as possible. He will avoid looking into the newest Weyoun’s eyes – violet and shimmering with an empty malice. “He lacked your appetite for cruelty.” 

**Author's Note:**

> And if you liked that, it now has a companion/sequel piece! [pretend for a moment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013547)
> 
> I also now have a multi-chapter story featuring Dayoun, 3 years after the Dominion war, in the same universe as this series;) [march forward to sin again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586445/chapters/70059906)


End file.
